


Sharpen Your Sword

by Pavonisa



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullen POV, F/M, Female Dominant, I've left it pretty vague, Male Submissive, Oral Sex, also some BDSM, basically just a character piece and smut, could honestly be a Trevelyan or a Lavellan, if you're not into that thing, mature but not explicit, religious fetishes, so just be warned, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 12:28:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3327137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pavonisa/pseuds/Pavonisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She speaks slowly, the direction of her voice the only clue that she is circling him. Looking him over from every angle, inspecting him, judging his worthiness to merely remain in her presence . . . Cullen feels a hot flush run through his body at the thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharpen Your Sword

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to this absolutely gorgeous song: http://featherwriter.tumblr.com/post/108872441422/had-hozier-lived-in-thedas-perhaps-he-would-have which I played on repeat the entire time I was writing this fic. I've been wanting to write something for male love interest submitting to a Dominant Inquisitor -so this is what you get!

 

Cullen feels trapped. Blindfolded and kneeling in the center of the room, it seems by turns to be endless and claustrophobic with each echoing breath. It’s the only sound he can hear, fast and panicked despite his best efforts to control it.

 _If I could just take off the blindfold . . ._ his hands clench and relax by his sides, but do not move. He has been given an order and he will obey. Instead, Cullen focuses on his other senses. The stone is cool beneath his knees and he shifts a little to relieve the strain. He can smell candles burning when he takes a steadying breath, good beeswax and smoke seeming to hang low about his head. For a moment, he can even smell incense from the Chantry. Maybe it’s his imagination, inventing details to occupy his mind –

“What do you see?”

Cullen jerks in a movement that would have been a step backwards had he been standing. The voice is close, coming from somewhere to the left and shattering the silence.

“Nothing,” he answers truthfully. There’s a pause, a slight change in the atmosphere. Cullen knows immediately that he’s said something wrong, not said something he should have. He fumbles, unsure how to mend his error, or even what it is.

“Is that the way you address your Herald?”

Her voice is to the right of him now, calm and implacable as if negotiating a trade envoy.

“No, your Grace –” The words stutter to a halt as a hand touches his shoulder. Before he can move, the soft shift that covers him is pulled backwards. The laces at his throat press into his skin for just a moment and then he feels warm breath against his naked back.

 _She cut the clothes from my body._ Cullen shivers from more than just the cold. He wonders if she used magic to rend the garment so quietly and goosebumps prickle his skin.

“You should be naked before the Herald of Andraste.” She speaks with the weight of a divine decree. “Humbled . . . vulnerable . . . exposed before me.”

She speaks slowly, the direction of her voice the only clue that she is circling him. Looking him over from every angle, inspecting him, judging his worthiness to merely remain in her presence . . . Cullen feels a hot flush run through his body at the thought.

“Yes, my Herald.” He responds as soon as he’s able –and she rewards him immediately. He can feel fingers running down his chest, through the light curls of chest hair down his torso.

“I could do so many things to you.” Her voice is in his ear, the scent of incense stronger now. “I could bring you pleasure like you have never known.” The slender fingers slide lower, brushing against the base of his cock.

The reaction is immediate. He gasps, his hips arching forward without his permission, desperate for contact. He is already hard, has been hard since she commanded him to kneel by her bed and wait for her return. The touch vanishes and he almost sobs.

“Or,” says her voice, soft as a velvet sheath for cold steel, “I could leave you here. Untouched, unfulfilled. You wouldn’t be able to do anything about it, would you?”

The thought of it twists in Cullen’s belly. He doesn’t mean to let the whimper escape his mouth but it does, a tiny plea for mercy.

“Would you?” She is unmoved, cold as the stone he kneels upon.

“No! I mean, no, Herald.” His words almost tumble over themselves in their haste to leave his mouth, like pebbles dropped from a rooftop.

He feels more than hears her purr, a soft sound of satisfaction deep in her throat. Fingers slip between his legs to reward him. His breath shudders, his back aching from the effort to remain still and not try and take more than he has earned. He has had orgasms less intense than the teasing touch he feels against his skin.

“Please!” He almost doesn’t care if he is breaking the rules –except he does, of course he does –and the thought of displeasing her tears at the edges of his voice. “Please, Herald. Let me see you, let me touch you!”

The soft chuckle seems to roll around the room. It is a small sound, but to him it seems like thunder.

“You know my face, my loyal Templar.” Even the gentle chiding makes him flinch a little, but he offers no resistance when she takes his hand. “How else could you worship me every night before you sleep?”

He feels the soft expanse of skin, curved under his open palm. Her waist –no, leg. He dares explore upwards, daring even further when no censure follows. He feels curled hairs brush his knuckles and his whole body trembles with want.

“Whose pleasure do you seek, Cullen?” A fingernail traces his length, scrapes him lightly and it feels like a knife over exposed nerves; a pleasure so hard and sharp it is almost pain.

“Yours,” he says hoarsely, because it is true. Even with the ache, the desperate clamouring of his body for satisfaction . . . he knows his place. He knows where he wants to be.

“Good boy.” She is pleased with him, Cullen can hear it. She takes him in her hand, wrapping her fingers around his cock as she strokes downwards. “Loyal knight. Devoted servant.”

The hand releases him, pressing instead against the back of his head in a gentle push forward. When he obeys, he can smell her. Musky and sweet, mingled with incense. She smells of divinity. She smells of perfection. His Herald.

“Worship me,” says his Herald.

He lets the hand nestled in his curls direct him, flicking his tongue over the little nub that brings her so much pleasure. Letting her use him. He moans at the thought, the sound muffled by his devotions. She may not even let him finish when she is done. Maybe she won’t even let him rise. Maybe she'll just give him a rewarding pat on the head, tell him he's done well before she leaves him to kneel in the dark until she required his services once more.

Shuddering at the thought, he laps and sucks, worshipping at her altar. Cullen listens to the sounds she makes, the shifts and sighs of desire, and lets her hand guide him.

His cock hangs heavy against his leg, but he no longer feels the urgent need for completion. He feels removed from his own pleasure, lost in a soft haze. His mind slowly empties of everything but the pleasure of obedience. He doesn’t think –there is no need. The Herald will guide him. The Herald will tell him what he needs to know.

Soon, the tender pressure on his head becomes forceful and irregular, fingers clenching and unclenching as they run through his hair. Against his cheeks, her thigh muscles quiver.

The smell of her is everywhere, mixed with incense and Cullen finds himself remembering the statue of Andraste he had seen one time in a little shop in Kirkwall. It had been Andraste as he had never seen her before, with a commanding stance and a woman’s inviting curves beneath magics designed to obscure such a perversion. Curiosity had pushed him to lay hands on the Sacred Bride, just as it pushed him to defile Her memory with lustful thoughts in the Templar barracks that night. It had smelled like this –sweat and incense floating in from the evening prayers –and it had carried the same feeling of yielding to a power far greater than his own.

He knows the moment she reaches her peak. Both hands fist in his hair, pulling him against her until he is dizzy, from want of air and pleasure both. Her thighs clench, her feet dragging on the ground to either side of him. He keeps going, dancing his tongue over her and drinking from her cup as she cries out. One single triumphant sound rings through the room, a high keening that trails off into a sigh.

Her hands release him and he almost falls backwards, struggling to catch his breath. Cullen can hear her breathing heavily as well, can hear her walking through the room with dragging feet made clumsy with satisfaction.

“Stand up.” Her voice is further away and sounds softly contented. On the bed, he supposes. “Come to me, my loyal knight.”

He is not ashamed to shuffle towards the bed, cautious of hard wood against his already tender knees. He doesn’t try and remove the blindfold, knows better than to try.

He falls gracelessly onto the bed, the cool mountain air evaporating the sweat from his skin. A sheet rustles, then falls lightly over him as he moves into his Herald’s waiting embrace.

Even as he relaxes under her hands, Cullen knows she will not be there when he wakes. Maybe to keep the mystery. Maybe to help him –help them both –keep the Herald who orders him down to his knees separate from the Herald who needs him to be willing to contradict her when the occasion calls for it.

He wants to tell her that he would worship her in the darkness or the light, blinded or naked to the world. He wants to say that he would crawl over the broken battlements of Skyhold for the privilege of her punishments. That nothing would make her less in his eyes than the chosen of Andraste; his Herald, his Mistress.

But all that comes out of his mouth is a mumble and a yawn.

“Sleep,” soothes the voice in the dark, and Cullen obeys. As he always does.

Maybe next time, she will let him take the blindfold off.


End file.
